


rip the night wide open

by Idday



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Getting Together, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Magical Realism, Multiple Selves, Parallel Universes, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 10:09:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19082869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idday/pseuds/Idday
Summary: Connor loves his life—his house, his boyfriend, the relationship they’ve built. He has absolutely no desire to revisit their past.And then he wakes up in 2015.





	rip the night wide open

Connor wakes up when the blender kicks on in the kitchen, blinks twice. There’s a cup of coffee on the nightstand that he knows is cold by now—he woke, briefly, when Jack brought it in for him this morning. Jack always wakes up first, makes them both coffee, goes for a run. Connor rarely rolls over until he hears him back in the kitchen, making his shake.  

Sure enough, Jack pads in their bedroom a moment later, shake in hand. He’s not wearing his running shoes, which means that he’s left them right in front of the door for Connor to trip over later. Connor props himself up on one elbow, swigs his coffee. 

“That’s cold,” Jack says, wrinkling his nose, and strips off his shirt. He misses the hamper and doesn’t seem to notice. 

Connor shrugs, because it’s still caffeinated. “I don’t care. Put that in the laundry, would you?” 

Jack puts on a show of rolling his eyes and sighing, but he plucks the shirt off the floor, throws it in the basket with the rest of their mixed dirties. “I can just microwave it for you, Connor, it’s not that hard.” 

“I’ll do it,” Connor says, and finally throws the comforter off. Jack keeps the air up so high that they need it, even in the summer. “Hi, how was your run.” 

“Eh,” Jack says, “only did three miles, but I have to do legs later, so.” He busks a kiss across Connor’s cheekbone as they pass, Jack on his way to the shower, Connor on his way to the kitchen.  

Jack always dumps his dishes in the sink, rinsed, and doesn’t migrate them to the dishwasher. While his coffee is heating, Connor slides the spoon and the mug in, shaking his head. He can hear Jack singing to himself in the shower, off-key and unrecognizable. Probably a song that Connor wouldn’t know, anyway.  

He scrolls through his phone idly, catching up on his social media, skimming an email about a charity golf tournament at the end of the month. Jack will want to practice, probably, so Connor makes a mental note to make a tee time this week. He has an appointment with his trainer at noon, and nothing else on his schedule for today, which doesn’t mean that somebody won’t text him about lunch in the next few hours. They’re in Toronto for the summer, so there are always friends drifting in and out.  

He could do groceries, maybe, but they have eggs and milk and most of the rest of what they eat is prepared and refrigerated by the chef. Jack’s written a few things on the list on the fridge in his cramped handwriting— _spinach, almond milk, apples—_ and Connor takes the magnetic pen down and writes below that,  _paper towels._  They’re not out yet, but Jack uses them to wipe up every sort of spill instead of just using the rag that’s in the sink, so they will be soon.  

The water turns off, upstairs. Connor considers making eggs for himself, but there’s a Tupperware of overnight oats in the fridge and he pulls those out instead. “Did you leave the towel on the floor again?” He asks as Jack wanders in, pink and damp and fresh-smelling. 

“No,” Jack says, but he doesn’t sound convincing, and Connor knows that when he goes up in a minute, there will be a damp towel on the floor. Sometimes it feels like he spends his life tidying Jack’s small messes, but after a long season like he just had, he doesn’t mind so much. It’s nice to share the house with someone again.  

“When are you going into the gym?” Connor asks. 

“Two,” Jack says. He drops his empty glass in the sink, then, at Connor’s look, transfers it to the dishwasher. “Probably get lunch with Matty before, though. You?” 

They don’t work out together, never have—anything more strenuous than family skates or touch football is a line they simply don’t cross.  

“Noon,” Connor says, “might do some shopping, after. Need anything?” 

“Shampoo,” Jack says, even though Connor knows he doesn’t, because they just bought more last week and Jack always uses his, anyway.  

But, “sure,” Connor says, and adds it to the list.  

… 

They end up leaving the house at the same time and arriving home nearly together as well, Jack still damp from his second shower of the day and Connor carrying a bag of groceries. Connor leaves Jack to put the perishables in the fridge and takes the shampoo up to their bathroom, where he stocks it under the sink next to—sure enough—another full bottle of shampoo.  

“Don’t buy any more of that,” Connor scolds, and softens it by running his hand over Jack’s waist when he straightens up and closes the fridge door. “You have two full bottles already.” 

“I won’t run out, then,” Jack says, “we have that steak in there, do you want to grill tonight?” 

Connor does, but he doesn’t actually grill without a fire extinguisher on hand; Jack goes out and lights it up instead when Connor’s stomach audibly growls. Connor pulls out a tupperware of potatoes to heat up and fishes out a bag of salad to open while Jack mans the grill. The evening is warm, so they eat out on the deck, chatting about the day and the news and the latest gossip around the league.  

Connor does the dishes because Jack cooked, and because Jack wouldn’t do them anyway. Jack takes a phone call from his parents, puts Connor on speaker with them about the trip they’re taking down to Boston at the end of the month.  

After, they sit in the living room—Jack's watching a baseball game that Connor’s only half paying attention to, scrolling through his phone. Halfway through the eighth, with the Sox down by two runs, Jack finally swears and turns the TV off. “I’m going to bed,” he says, and waits until Connor pulls his legs off Jack’s lap to stand up.  

Connor follows, a few minutes later, turning off the lights as he goes. He slips into the bathroom just as Jack finishes brushing his teeth, spitting in the sink.  

“Lotion,” Connor reminds him, and Jack rolls his eyes, doubles back, and takes about two times more of Connor’s very expensive moisturizer than he needs to slather it over his face.  

“Happy?” he says, and kisses Connor’s jaw.  

“Very,” Connor says, through a mouthful of mint toothpaste.  

Jack’s looking at the shelter dogs again, when Connor climbs into bed beside him, puts his head on Jack’s shoulder. 

“Look at this one,” Jack says, and tilts his screen over.  

Jack’s been looking for a dog—which he calls theirs, even though Connor knows Jack would keep it during the season—for years, now. He wants a golden retriever, or a husky, maybe, even though Connor keeps telling him the shedding wouldn’t be worth it. He knows what’s going to happen, anyway—Jack will go to the shelter and fall in love with some hard-luck, shaggy mutt, and that will be it, and then he’ll take it to puppy training and insist on house rules and then let it on the bed every night, anyway.  

“Cute,” Connor says, looking at her smiling doggy face—Molly, her name is. He puts his feet in between Jack’s calves, where it’s always warmest. 

“Christ, your feet are cold,” Jack says, but doesn’t make a move to shake him off. He puts his phone down after a moment, says, “hey.” 

“Hey,” Connor says back, kisses him. It builds for a moment—they're right on the edge of something bigger, their lips catching hot and wet, and Connor says, “you want to?” 

“Mm,” Jack says, kisses him again. “You?” 

“Don’t want to change the sheets,” Connor admits, and Jack laughs at him. 

“I could swallow,” he teases, but he pulls back regardless with one final kiss. Connor’s tired, anyway, after an especially brutal workout.  

“Hey,” Connor says again, as Jack settles in. He sleeps on his stomach, which Connor will never understand. “Love you.” 

“Love you,” Jack murmurs, as Connor rolls over. 

… 

Connor rarely sleeps through the night, which Jack keeps telling him that he should get looked at. Usually, he just wakes up to take a piss or get a drink of water. When they’re together, in the summer, he likes to hear the way Jack’s breathing stays steady and even, the way that he’s _there._ Jack sleeps like a log.  

During the season, when he wakes up and the bed is cold and empty, he’s gotten in the habit of texting Jack—whatever's on his mind, or worrying him, or woke him up _._ He knows it won’t wake Jack, who’s admitted that he likes to wake up to it anyway, whatever it is.  _Do you think I should make a reservation for Mother’s Day? Worried we won’t get in anywhere if we wait longer._ Or,  _still need to work on my_ _wrister_ _. Hasn't been clicking for some reason._ Or,  _my neighbor’s dog is howling again. Remember how you said it was part wolf? You might be right._ Or even just,  _love you, love you, love you._  

Connor goes to the kitchen, chugs a glass of water at the sink and then refills it to bring it back up.  

Jack doesn’t even stir when Connor climbs back into bed. He sleeps so heavily that Connor knows he won’t wake when he leans over, stroking his cheek. He looks placid in a way he rarely is, unburdened and young, and Connor likes to see it. 

“Mm?” Jack says in the back of his throat, eyebrows wrinkling. 

“Nothing,” Connor says. “Go back to sleep. Love you.” 

… 

Connor wakes, overwarm and totally disoriented. The room is too dark and he’s alone, and when he scrambles to turn on the bedside lamp, it’s not there.  

“What the fuck,” he says out loud.  

Finally, he finds his phone on the bedside table—it feels clunky and too big in his palm—fumbles for the flashlight function until he can find a light switch. It’s early morning, much earlier than he usually wakes, and the room is vaguely familiar in the way that most hotel rooms are, but it’s certainly not the master where he fell asleep last night.  

His phone is all wrong—old and heavy and without even a fingerprint key. He recognizes the case on it, but he hasn’t used it in years. On a whim, he tries the passcode that he used in juniors, and the phone clicks open. The calendar shows June 2015. 

“What the fuck,” he says again.  

In the mirror, his face is shockingly young—he's scrawny and underdeveloped and covered in acne, and he has the shorn look indicative of a brand-new haircut.  

Before he can get much further, there’s a rap on his door. Through the peephole, he can see a familiar face, albeit a decade younger than he’s seen it last. 

“Dylan,” he says dumbly, swinging the door open. 

“Hey,” Dylan says, cheerfully enough, wandering in. He’s lankier than Connor remembers him being, face rounder with baby fat.  

“Dylan,” he says again. 

“You okay, Davo?” Connor opens his mouth, closes it. What is he going to say?  _No, actually, I’ve traveled here from the future and I have no idea what’s happening or why I’m eighteen again or if I'm ever going to go back to my real life._ “We’re supposed to meet for breakfast in five,” Dylan breezes on, nonplussed. “I thought I should make sure you didn’t sleep through your alarm again.” 

“Ah,” Connor says, and Dylan frowns at him.  

“Aren’t you going to get dressed? We have, like, interviews and stuff afterwards.” 

Connor does get dressed, after a glance at Dylan to tell what kind of clothes he should throw on from the open suitcase on the dresser, follows him out of the room. Connor doesn’t see anything good coming out of telling him—or anyone, really—what's going on. Hopefully if he acts normal enough, he can make it until... something. Until he goes back, or until someone tells him it’s a practical joke.  

And then they walk into the dining room, and into—“Jack.” 

Jack looks at him, sideways and a little disdainful, and that’s when Connor realizes that he’s reached out, grabbed his arm. His bicep is warm and firm and the same as always, but the way he’s leaning away, out of Connor’s space, that’s new.  

Or rather, that’s old—about a decade old. 

“Hi,” Jack says, finally, still looking at him out of the corner of his eye. So is Dylan, actually, and Noah Hanifin, who was standing in front of Jack in the buffet line, all looking at Connor like he’s lost his mind.  

He has, maybe. That might be the only explanation of what’s happening here. But if it’s not, if it’s really the day before they’re drafted, 2015... even his Jack still didn’t like him, then.  

He drops Jack’s arm. 

“Sorry,” he says. 

“Whatever,” Jack replies. 

… 

Connor makes it through the rest of the day, barely. The interviews are nothing, he’s done so many at this point—all puff questions on how he’s feeling about the draft. He only stumbles once or twice trying not to say anything that would indicate that he knows exactly how things are going to go tomorrow. There are so many staffers shuttling them around from place to place that there isn’t really much thinking involved at all. He gets to hang out with Dylan, which is nice—they're still friends, but they certainly don’t see as much of each other as they once did.  

But everywhere he turns is Jack, cold and closed off to him, so different from the man that Connor went to bed with last night. He understands, of course, that they weren’t together or anywhere near it at their draft, when they barely knew each other and were bearing so much weight on their shoulders. They’ve had this conversation, in the years since, and Connor understands that Jack was jealous and scared and proud but not allowed to be.  

It’s more painful than he would have expected to see it now, though, the hurt written into every little motion and expression of the person that he’s come to love so well. 

After dinner, he takes a breath and then knocks on Jack’s door, three quick raps. He shouldn’t be here—Jack clearly doesn’t want to see him, but Connor can’t stay away. 

He’s always been fascinated by Jack, wanted to be around him. Jack draws people in that way; Connor’s not immune, never has been. Now, he’s banking on something Jack told him once: _I always liked you, Connor, even when I didn’t want to._   

“Uh, hey,” Connor says, when Jack pulls open the door. He looks irritated, but Connor can see where it’s mostly a front. There’s curiosity there, too, and exhaustion.  

“Hey,” Jack says, half a question.  

“I was wondering if you wanted to, uh,” Connor says, and stalls out. All those years together, and Jack still reduces him to a babbling idiot.  

“It’s late,” Jack blurts, just as Connor finishes, “ice cream?” 

“Oh,” Jack says. Connor knew that would get him, with his massive sweet tooth.  

“There’s a place I saw down the street,” Connor says, “and I thought it might be nice to get some. Get out of here for a little bit.” 

“Uh,” Jack says, and for a moment, Connor can’t tell if it’s going to work, and then Jack says, “okay, I guess.” 

He ducks back into the room for his shoes and wallet. Connor wants to remind him to grab a jacket—he never brings one, and is always cold. “It’s chilly, kind of,” he says finally instead. 

Jack gives him a look so Jack-like that it makes Connor’s throat go tight. It’s a look that he’s seen a hundred times before, a thousand, the one where his face says,  _and what about it?_ so clearly that he doesn’t need to speak.  

“Never mind,” Connor says. They make it to the shop mostly in silence. Most of what Connor has to say he can’t, for obvious reasons, and Jack’s chattier than Connor on a good day but he doesn’t seem to have anything to say, either. The store is quiet, empty besides them, and Jack spends a long time looking into the cases.  

“What’s raspberry chiffon swirl,” he finally asks the girl, who gives him a spoonful to taste. Connor could have told him that he’d hate it before he even tried it—he'll get something with chocolate, probably—but it’s satisfying to see the betrayed look on his face, anyway. 

Connor gets vanilla, which Jack looks like he wants to mock him for. Connor’s Jack certainly would, but this one just shoots him a raised-eyebrow look that Connor has no problem interpreting. Jack ends up with rocky road. They each pay for their own.  

Connor knows better than to ask Jack about the draft tomorrow, in this version of his body. He says, “any fun plans for this summer?” 

Jack shrugs, and licks at the edge of his ice cream where it’s melting down the cone, and Connor tries very hard not to watch it. “We’re going to the Cape, probably.” 

They go every summer, even now. Connor breathes. “Sounds fun.” 

“Yeah,” Jack says, “I love the ocean. How ‘bout you?” 

“We have a cabin on a lake, but no ocean,” Connor says, “nothing planned, just hanging out, probably.” 

“Lotta guys in the GTA,” Jack says, neutrally enough. “Anybody you train with?” 

“Uh,” Connor says. Jack’s in the GTA now, and never lets Connor forget it. Connor owes him for agreeing to the move—in Jack’s words—until they’re eighty-six. “My agent wants me to get serious with the bigger programs, you know. But just my old trainer for now. Plenty of people in Boston, too.” 

“Sure,” Jack says. They’re having some semblance of a real conversation now, which is better than Connor remembers their actual draft going. Still, it’s so different from talking to his Jack that it keeps catching him off guard. He’s itching to reach out, thumb the melted chocolate off Jack’s chin. Connor shouldn’t have gotten a cone, because he never eats fast enough to keep his ice cream from melting all over, and his Jack would have made him get a cup. This Jack just says, “you’re dripping, dude,” which he is.  

Connor doesn’t know what he was looking to get out of this. Mostly, he just wants to be with Jack, around him all the time in any way he can get him.  

“Should we head back,” Jack says, expectant, crunching on the end of his cone. “It’s kind of cold out here.” 

Connor throws his half-eaten ice cream in the trash. “Sure,” he says. He wasn’t that hungry anyway. 

… 

Connor wakes up to the sound of the blender, jolts upright in bed. There’s a mug of coffee on the nightstand, stone cold.  

Sure enough—it’s his room, his bed, his boyfriend humming to himself downstairs. He practically vaults out of the room, takes the stairs two at a time.  

Jack’s got his back turned, adding something to a hideously green smoothie. He’s sweaty and broad and Connor loves him.  

Jack makes a small, surprised noise when Connor hugs him from behind, wrapping his arms around Jack’s waist and burrowing his nose behind Jack’s ear. The familiarity of it all almost makes him weep—the smell of him and his warmth and weight and the shape of him in Connor’s arms. He did use Connor’s shampoo yesterday, because he doesn’t smell like his own. 

“Hey,” Jack says, amused. “You’re up early.” 

Connor’s crying, he realizes now. He doesn’t mean to be. He’s never been a crier—that's Jack, who cries more often than Connor, as unashamedly as he expresses the rest of his emotions—but he can’t stop himself, now, tears burning hot on his cheeks.  

Jack must be able to feel them, too, because he turns, suddenly, catches sight of Connor’s face. 

“Hey,” he says, softer, thumbing under his eyes, “hey, hey. What’s wrong?” 

Connor just shakes his head, presses his face back into Jack’s neck. “Just...” he starts, and then stalls out, lets Jack pull him in tighter and rub his big, warm hands down Connor’s back. 

“What’s wrong, baby?” Jack says again, but when Connor shakes his head again he falls silent, just holds him there. 

Finally, Connor pulls back, sees Jack’s concerned face. “I want,” he says, and then kisses him before he realizes that he’s going to. It feels right, though, it is what he wants—he presses himself closer, opens his mouth, feels every part of Jack pressed against him. 

It’s not enough. “I want you to fuck me,” he says, suddenly sure that it’s true. He wants Jack, whatever way he can get him, terrified that he might be thrust back into the past at any moment. Wants the reassurance that they’re here, together, in love.  

“You sure?” Jack asks, still tender.  

Connor nods. “Yes, yes, come on.” 

They’re adults, so Jack puts his half-made smoothie in the fridge and they don’t fuck on the kitchen floor like Connor’s tempted to, just walk up to their room where the covers are half off the bed.  

“I’m all sweaty,” Jack says, and drops his shirt on the floor. Connor doesn't say anything, even though Jack always leaves his laundry around. Being able to say ‘always’ seems like a gift, now, the way it implies intimacy and the long knowledge of their relationship. He’s never relished it intentionally before, that when one of his teammates says something about his wife, he can reply, _Jack always orders our_ _Thai food too spicy for me to eat_ _. Jack always forgets a water bottle and then drinks all of mine. Jack always says that I should just keep an umbrella in my car, and I always forget._  

“I don’t care,” Connor says, shucking off his pajama pants. He’s not even hard yet, but it doesn’t matter. He will be, soon.  

“How...?” Jack starts, and Connor pulls him onto the mattress, squirming under him. 

“Like this,” he says, pulling Jack down over him. He likes it like this anyway, the weight of Jack on him and the way he presses Connor into the mattress, at Jack’s mercy. He wants it even more, now. Wants the security of it, the way it makes him feel safe and sheltered, boxed in under Jack’s big body. “Kiss me,” he pleads. 

He folds his own legs up, around Jack’s waist, as he fumbles for the lube in the bedside drawer. “Hey, slow down,” Jack says, and slicks up his fingers. “We’ve got time, babe.” 

He slows their kisses, and Connor allows it because Jack’s so close, chests pressed together, fingers working into him. Connor keeps his arms locked tight around Jack’s neck, legs around his waist. “Now, now,” he says. 

“No, not yet,” Jack says, and Connor protests, says, “yes, now, please.” 

“Condom,” Jack says, again his mouth. 

“No, forget it,” Connor says, and Jack pulls back, studies him. Connor doesn’t usually like the mess, but he wants it all this time, every moment and sensation and piece of Jack.  

“Okay,” he says, finally. “Whatever... whatever you want.”   

It’s a familiar ache when Jack pushes into him, the long, deep slide, the spark of shivery pleasure at the end. “Closer,” Connor says into his neck, before he bites down. 

“I can’t,” Jack says, and he’s right—they can’t get closer, and Connor still wants to, wants to open Jack up and crawl inside.  

They keep it deep and slow. Connor still won’t let him go, keeps a hand in Jack’s hair, threading his fingers into the downy curls. “Jack,” he says helplessly. 

“I don’t know what you want,” Jack breathes. He has a pink spot on his neck from Connor’s mouth and his eyes are so blue and he’s flushed down to his collarbone and Connor loves him.  

“I just want,” Connor says, and stalls out. He doesn’t know how to articulate it, even to himself. “I just want to feel like yours,” he lands on, finally, and it gets him halfway there. 

Jack stills for a moment, up on his elbows, wearing an expression that Connor can’t quite read. Concerned and confused and maybe a little amused. “You are mine,” he says, as if it’s as simple as that.  

It doesn’t take much longer, after that. Connor’s lost in it, overwhelmed, and he comes first against Jack’s belly. Jack always makes the same sound when he comes, gut-punched and muffled into Connor’s mouth.  

Jack has to roll off him, eventually, which Connor knows intellectually. It doesn’t make it easier to let him go. He comes back from the bathroom with a washcloth for Connor, sprawls beside him with his head propped up on his hand. “What’s gotten into you, hmm?” He asks softly.  

Connor’s eyes prickle again. “I missed you,” he says, even though he knows it won’t make sense. 

Jack pushes Connor’s hair back from his forehead, gentle fingers stroking over his head. “I’ve been right here,” he says.  

_I haven’t been,_ Connor thinks.  

“I know,” he says.  

… 

The rest of the evening is normal—as much as it can be, with Jack still throwing him concerned looks and Connor taking every chance to touch him, hold his hand, burrow his feet under Jack’s big thighs on the couch. They fuck again before bed, Connor taking Jack deep in his mouth until his jaw aches and Jack is trembling and swearing.  

He almost doesn’t want to sleep, as if staying awake will prevent... whatever that was. Either time travel or an extremely lucid hallucination, which are both explanations that he’s pondered.  

But he does, eventually, and wakes up in his own bed, early enough that Jack’s plastered against him, breathing on his shoulder. And the next day, and the day after that, until it’s been a week and it seems so ridiculous that he does wonder if it was a particularly vivid dream.  

... 

And then he wakes up in 2016. 

… 

Connor and Jack were not together at the World Cup of Hockey, not anywhere near it, but. It’s where things started to change for them. That’s not the only reason that Connor’s happier to wake up there than he was the first time he woke up in the wrong year, but it’s one of them. 

It’s almost a strange relief, in a way. It means that he maybe wasn’t crazy the first time, and he already knows that he has to stick it out for a day and then, barring disaster, he should go back home. He’d still rather know why it’s happening or how to get it to stop, but he feels less unmoored at least, this time.  

It’s a practice day, which is good. Connor could play, of course, but that feels wrong somehow—unfair. He does quickly realize that he couldn’t do everything that he wanted anyway, not in this underdeveloped teenage body.  

Jack is warmer to him, this time around. Probably because they’re teammates, probably because the draft is behind them. Connor’s sure the captaincy thing didn’t go over particularly well, but Jack’s not overtly disdainful of him, although, neither does he seem like he’s at all interested in seeking out Connor’s company.  

Which is probably why Jack looks so startled when Connor invites him to dinner. 

Connor has no way of knowing which Jack this is, or rather, in which timeline he’s landed. With his Jack, he never got ice cream at the draft. He can’t ask now, whether this Jack remembers that or not, or if he’s meeting a third version entirely.  

Jack says no, which Connor expects. He had actually asked Jack, back during the real World Cup, if he wanted to get dinner, and he’d said no then, too, and Connor hadn’t pushed.  

He pushes now, though, until Jack finally caves. He doesn’t even really know why he does it—he just wants all that he can get, while he’s here. There seems to be no other good reason that he’s traveling like this, except to see him.  

So they get dinner, albeit with four or five other guys. It’s nice, even if it’s not real, the slate wiped clean when he goes back home.  

… 

Connor wakes up and Jack is already in the shower, singing something off key. There’s a cup of coffee on his nightstand.  

He must not be able to hide the expression of abject relief when Jack strolls into the room in a towel, because he frowns and asks Connor, “are you okay?” 

“Yeah,” Connor lies. He’s less rattled, maybe, than the first time, but. Rattled all the same.  

Jack comes over, sits on the edge of the bed next to Connor’s hip. “Hey,” he says, and reaches out, brushes Connor’s hair back like he always does when he thinks Connor’s upset. He looks so concerned, brow all wrinkled up. Connor missed him, a bone-deep ache, even in just the one day. “Are you ever going to tell me what’s going on with you?” 

There’s a little hurt buried, there. They don’t hide things from each other. They can’t—they only live together three months a year. Anything other than pure transparency would be a disaster.  

But this isn’t something that Connor even knows how to explain to himself, much less to Jack. “I don’t—you wouldn’t believe it if I did.” 

Now Jack does look injured, drops his hand. “You could try,” he says, softly.  

Connor breathes in, out. Tries, “where was I yesterday, Jack?” 

“You were here,” Jack says, looking perplexed. “You went to the gym and we had dinner with your parents. Are you—" and now he pauses, says, “are you forgetting things?” 

“No,” Connor says, immediately, because he knows what Jack is thinking—concussion—and he may not know what’s wrong with him, but he knows it’s not that. Anyway, he’s having the opposite problem of forgetting things. If anything, he’s accumulating memories that he shouldn’t have at all. 

“Then, what’s going on?” 

Connor already knows that he’s not missing days, in the present. He’s checked the calendar both times he’s returned and found the day that he expected.  

“You’re going to think I’m crazy,” he says. Maybe he is.  

Jack sighs. “Just. Can you just tell me, before I accuse you of having an affair, or something?” 

“I wouldn’t—it’s not that, Jack. It’s just... okay. So. Yesterday, I woke up, and it was 2016.” 

Jack searches his face. Finally, he says, “so you are forgetting things, then. Like, the whole last decade.” 

“No,” Connor says, struggling for words. “I remember everything that happened since then. That’s the problem. I woke up, and it was 2016 and we were at the World Cup but I still remember everything else, all of this, and I knew that I was supposed to be here, with you, but instead I was there, with old you, and I was the only one who knew that it wasn’t actually 2016. Or, maybe it was, but I wasn’t supposed to be there.” 

Jack watches him, like he thinks Connor is going to shout,  _Gotcha!_ Connor doesn’t blame him. He hardly believes it, and he’s living it. If Jack had told him the same thing, he’s not sure he would be taking it so well. 

“So you... time traveled?” Jack says finally, like he’s testing the words out. 

“No, I,” Connor says. “I don’t know, maybe. But it wasn’t like... me, me. It was my old body, you know? Like I was that kid again, but with all my memories. And it happened once before, too.” 

“Last week,” Jack says immediately.  

“Yeah,” Connor says, “but that time it was the day before our draft. And when I came back I didn’t know what had happened or what to do or who to tell, so I didn’t do anything.” 

“I could tell something was wrong, obviously,” Jack admits. “You were so upset, Connor. I’ve never seen you like that before.” 

“I still don’t...” Connor starts. “I still don’t know what’s happening.” 

“Well,” Jack says, finally. He’s clearly still processing, or maybe doesn’t quite believe him. But. That’s probably fair.  

“I don’t know what’s happening,” Connor says again, and Jack squeezes his hand. 

“We’ll figure it out,” Jack tells him.  

… 

Connor spends the next three days with Jack, then the one after that at their pre-draft combine. They don’t speak there at all; Connor watches a much younger Jack execute a series of perfect pull-ups and stammers, “hey,” when he strolls by after, still pink in a way that Connor doesn’t associate with exercise, anymore. Jack just nods at him, a little curiously, and doesn’t say anything back, and then Connor has to do the Wingate, which he honestly thought he might escape ever having to do again.  

He must be trembling when he wakes, because Jack’s leaning over him, hovering. “I didn’t want to wake you up,” he says, “in case... in case.”   

“Ugh,” Connor says, and rolls into him, puts his nose where it fits best in the crook of his neck. 

“Where’d you go?” Jack asks, soft, stroking down his back. He’s treated the whole thing so matter-of-factly, since Connor first told him. He’s still expecting Jack to crack at some point, but apparently, it’s not this morning.  

“Combine,” Connor tells him. “I had to do the Wingate.” 

“The worst,” Jack agrees.  

Connor breathes for a moment. Says, still into Jack’s neck, “do you think I should see a doctor.” 

He can actually feel Jack’s heartbeat pick up, but his voice is steady when he says, “I think that’s up to you, babe.” 

Connor pulls back. “I think I might... I think I should. Just in case.” 

There’s a flash of relief across Jack’s face—minute, but stark. He didn’t want to be the one to say it, but  he agrees that Connor should go.  

“Okay,” Jack says. “Let’s do that.” 

… 

Connor doesn’t tell his doctor that he’s been time traveling, or whatever. Jumping, Jack’s started to call it. He just says that he’s been having symptoms, keeps it vague, and because he’s him and because he plays hockey, his doctor gets him into the hospital right away.  

Jack stays in the waiting room while Connor’s ushered in and out of a CT scan and an MRI machine and completes a fairly extensive concussion test, which he passes. He also passes both the scans, which his doctor declares normal. He gets a follow-up appointment for his trouble, but he knows he’ll clear that, too. 

“It’s good news,” Jack tells him on the drive home, holding Connor’s hand over the gear shift, and it is. It’s also one step farther from figuring out what’s going on in his head, so Connor just grunts at him.  

“Wanna get ice cream?” Jack asks him two miles later. 

“That’s your thing, not mine,” Connor sighs, but Jack pulls into the little boutique shop he always tells people is too pretentious anyway. He’s a liar, because he comes here at least once a week and thinks Connor doesn’t know.  

It’s quiet, inside, just a few other families. Connor orders vanilla, which Jack rolls his eyes at. “Seriously,” he says. “All the flavors in the world and you still choose vanilla?”  

“It’s a classic for a reason,” Connor says, and Jack puts his fingers in Connor’s back pocket and tells the girl, “give him a cup,” even though Connor ordered a cone. She looks at him, scoop hovering, and Jack says, “come on, you’re going to want to take half of it home to freeze, anyway,” which isn’t wrong, so Connor gives up and nods at the girl. 

“And I’ll get the double coffee,” Jack says, “in a cone.” 

“Coffee,” Connor repeats to him, mocking, even though he doesn’t quite capture the wide New England vowels as well as Jack can mimic his Canadian accent.  

“Shut up,” Jack says, leaning into him, and pays for both cones.  

The day’s nice and there’s a picnic table, so they sit outside, across from each other, and Jack traps Connor’s ankles in between his and won’t let him go.  

“We did this,” Connor blurts, “at the draft.” 

Jack wrinkles his nose, like he’s thinking. “No, we didn’t,” he says around a mouthful of ice cream.  

“No, I know,” Connor says, “not the first time. I mean, when I jumped. I told you we should get ice cream and then we did.” 

“I bet I was gracious about that,” Jack half-teases, but he’s not smiling, staring down at his ice cream. Connor had told him what happened in broad strokes, but he hadn’t mentioned the ice cream thing, before.  

“You were fine,” Connor says. “You forgot to bring a coat and you got cold, and I threw half my ice cream away because you didn’t tell me to get a cup. But. It was nice.” 

“Hmm,” Jack says, and then abruptly, “did you ever worry about changing the future?” 

“What,” Connor says, spoon hovering. Melted ice cream drips to the ground. 

“I mean,” Jack says, not looking at him. “You know how they say, like, butterfly effect and stuff. Well, we didn’t really get ice cream. But if you go back and change the timeline and we eat ice cream, who knows? Maybe one of us gets hit by a bus, or something.” 

Connor drops the spoon, suddenly not hungry. “No,” he says, and he’s chilled and it’s not from the frozen cup in his hand. “I didn’t... I didn’t think about that.” 

“Connor, I didn’t mean,” Jack says, and he throws the tail end of his cone in the trash so he can come over, sit next to Connor on his side of the table. He takes Connor’s hand, thumbing at his fingers, choosing his words carefully. “I mean that more like. I don’t think you are time traveling, because of that. Because, like. You’ve done three days already, and none of them went like they did the first time. But we’re still here, aren’t we?” 

“Yeah,” Connor says. Sometimes it’s hard to believe, but. They're here. 

“So, like,” Jack says. “We know it’s not a tumor or a concussion or something in your head. And we know it’s not time travel. So, I don’t know. I know that’s not a lot, but we’re ruling things out, at least. It’s a start.” 

_We’ll figure it out,_ Jack had promised him, and here they are, at an ice cream parlor, no closer to doing so. But they’re trying—Jack is trying—and that’s enough.  

For now.  

… 

They go to Boston. The first day, they drive out to the beach and Jack keeps slipping his hand down the back of Connor’s swim trunks until Connor’s all flushed and squirmy, and then Jack blows him in the car before they leave.  

Then, Connor blushes his way through a dinner with his in-laws, helps Anne with the dishes afterwards. Jack passes out on the couch with his niece sprawled dozing over his chest, heads lolling identically. He’s sunburned over his nose and his hand looks so big where he’s holding his niece close to him, and Connor takes, like, thirty-six pictures to send to his parents.  

Finally, Jessie packs her daughter into the carseat and Connor packs Jack into their car and drives them both back to the house that Jack bought last summer. It’s not his favorite of their places—that's Toronto, where they spend the most time together—but Jack’s always wanted a house like this, in his old neighborhood, and that makes it special. It’s smaller than Jack’s Buffalo house, cottage-like, and their bed is smaller, too. Connor has to press into Jack’s side to keep from feeling like he’s going to tumble off the side, which has its perks. 

“Good day,” Jack mumbles.  

“You’re burnt,” Connor tells him, drawing a finger feather-light down the bridge of his nose to rest on his bottom lip. “It’s cute.” 

“Shut up,” Jack tells him, but he has to turn his face into the pillow to hide his smile. 

“Kiss me?” Connor asks him. Jack grumbles, but turns his face back to Connor, puckers his lips dramatically. Connor kisses him anyway, until he softens, turns it real. “Thanks,” he says. 

“I’m very gracious,” Jack tells him, and he’s already drifting off, still sleepy from his nap, so Connor just slings his arm across Jack’s back, fingers tucked into the collar of his shirt.  

“Love you,” Connor tells him.  

… 

The second day they’re in Boston, Connor wakes up in 2020. They’re both at Worlds, and Jack tries to kiss him. 

And Connor basically loses his shit.  

The first time this had happened—when Jack had found him at a Swiss bar, had jawed off about the Canadian loss, had plied him with beer and walked him back to his room when he overdid it, had kissed him hard up against the inside of Connor’s hotel room door—that had been it. No looking back, it was Jack and nothing else.  

But this isn’t his Jack. This Jack doesn’t know that Connor talks in his sleep when he’s sick and can’t stand the taste of rum and is ticklish on his lower back. No matter how much he looks or talks or acts like Connor’s Jack—he's not. Connor hasn’t kissed anyone but his Jack since... well, since this night. He doesn’t intend to start now. 

He spares a moment to freak out about pushing him away—what the  _fuck_ is he doing, and what if this is the time he fucks up his real future—but he does it. Even drunk, the look on Jack’s face cuts at him.  

“I thought...” Jack says, and then shakes his head, looking unsure. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” 

Connor sits on the bed, which, in the small European hotel room, is just a step away from the door. He puts his head in his hands. The door doesn’t open. 

“Are you,” Jack grits out, and when Connor looks up at him, it’s not just hurt in his eyes—there’s real fear there, too. “Are you going to tell anyone.” 

_I’m going to tell you,_ Connor wants to say, but. For obvious reasons, he can’t do that. 

“No,” he says, and falls asleep with the room still spinning and Jack’s soft, “thanks” echoing in his head. 

… 

An advantage of waking back up in the future—avoiding the head-splitting hangover he knows was awaiting him in Switzerland.  

This, of course, pales in comparison to hearing Jack swearing in the kitchen downstairs.  

“Thank fuck,” Connor says, when Jack storms in and flops back down across from him.  

“I was going to make breakfast, but I burned the bacon,” he tells Connor. He always gets petulant when he makes a mistake, and he’s wearing it on his face now. “Let’s just go out, instead.” 

“Okay,” Connor says, and closes his eyes, still breathing hard. 

“Did you jump?” Jack asks him then, sliding an arm across his waist. 

“Worlds, in Switzerland,” Connor tells him.  

“Ah. Fond memories.” 

“I kinda didn’t...” Connor says, wincing a little. “I kinda didn’t let you kiss me, this time.” 

“Rude,” Jack scolds, but without any real heat, “why?” 

“Is that allowed?” Connor yelps, “I was under the impression that we were in a fairly exclusive relationship!” 

“Yeah, we are,” Jack says, and he looks like he’s going to laugh, when Connor opens his eyes to look over at him. “ _We_ being the operative word there. I don’t care if you kiss me, Connor. Even a different me.” 

“Really?” Connor asks. “It feels... weird.” 

“I mean,” Jack shrugs. “You don’t have to. But. You have blanket permission to kiss me in any universe, okay? Or like... whatever. More than kiss.” 

“Dirty,” Connor scolds.  

“Yeah,” Jack leers, and his hand snakes down under the blanket. “Want me to prove it?” 

“You promised to buy me breakfast,” Connor says, but. He doesn’t push him away this time. 

… 

It drizzles the fourth day, a steady, sleepy rain. They’ve spent the last few days with Jack’s family, wandering around the city. Connor’s never going to get tired of seeing Jack here in his element, hearing his accent change and seeing the way people treat him like an idol. Jack has memories to share of everything, from his old campus to the Dunkin’ Donuts on the corner to the T line that takes them downtown.  

But it’s been rainy all morning, so today they don’t go out. Mid-afternoon, Jack goes up to nap while Connor rattles around the house, flipping through channels and checking his twitter. He’s not sleepy, but he finally goes up to their master suite, rolls into bed with Jack. The whole room feels cushioned in some sort of timeless quiet. Jack’s dozing, sleeping light. When Connor presses in, his eyes slit open enough that he rolls over, lets Connor squirm into the C of his body before he drifts back off.  

Connor listens to the rain on the roof, the sound of Jack’s breathing. He doesn’t mean to doze, but he must; when he opens his eyes again, his arm is trapped under Jack’s body, nerveless, and Jack’s watching him with a steady, sad look on his face. 

“Hi,” Connor mumbles, and tries unsuccessfully to wiggle his fingers. 

“Do you regret this,” Jack says. 

“I regret that you’re lying on my arm,” Connor says, “It’s asleep.” 

Jack dutifully lifts up enough for Connor to draw it back. He says, “I’m serious, Connor.” 

“Regret what,” Connor says, still trying to catch up.  

“Us,” Jack says. He says it with practiced calm, like he’s been thinking about it for too long. 

“What the fuck,” Connor says, blindsided. He rolls onto his back, sits up. “Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“No,” Jack says, still with his strange, preternatural calm. “I’m asking you. Do you regret it.” 

“No,” Connor says, vehement and wounded. “Do you?” 

“No,” Jack says, with just as much conviction. “But, you know.” 

“No, I don’t,” Connor says. He feels... he feels. He doesn’t know if he could put words to it. “You have to fucking tell me what you mean, because I’m...” He’s tearing up, he thinks. His voice certainly sounds choked, to his own ears. 

“Hey,” Jack says, sitting up too, suddenly gentle. He puts a hand on Connor’s back, and Connor sags into it. “I’m sorry, if I freaked you out.” 

“You did,” Connor tells him. “What the fuck, Jack.” It’s sick, how much he wants to lean into him still. He’s the only steady thing in Connor’s world. 

“I’m trying every fucking thing I can think of, to figure out why you’re jumping,” Jack tells him. He’s pressing his mouth into Connor’s shoulder, speaking hot against his skin. “And I woke up and you’re lying there sleeping and I don’t even know if you’re here with me and I thought—I don’t know why—I thought, maybe it’s because things aren’t supposed to be this way.” 

“Well, you’re wrong,” Connor says, turning into him. He puts his hand on the back of Jack’s neck. He’s so solid; Connor digs his fingertips in, and hopes he bruises.  

“You don’t know that,” Jack says. He sounds as miserable as Connor feels, as small. He never flinched back from this, told Connor from day one that they’d figure it out without even asking questions or telling him that he was crazy or wrong or damaged. And meanwhile he’s been here this whole time, thinking. Thinking that it was because Connor didn’t want him, after all. And Connor didn’t even know, which is the worst part. Couldn’t tell him otherwise. “You keep fucking—you get further and further away, and I just… I fucking stay here.” 

“Every time, Jack, every fucking time, it’s about you. I’m going to where you are, to where we’ve been. And I don’t know why yet, and I don’t know how, but I know it’s about you. It’s the only possible reason.” 

Jack’s grip on him tightens, and Connor welcomes it. He feels the same way he did that first day back, frantic and like he’ll never get close enough. He turns fully, climbs into Jack’s lap. Frames Jack’s face with his palms. 

“What if the universe is telling you that we shouldn’t be together,” Jack asks. They went to mass yesterday, with his parents. Connor thinks about him on his knees, asking about this. 

“Fuck the universe,” he says. He presses his palms into Jack’s jaw, just enough to make sure he’s looking. “Do you hear me? Fuck the universe, if that’s true. We haven’t gotten to choose so much in our lives, but that’s over now. I get to choose. I’m choosing you. No matter fucking what, I'm choosing you.” 

Jack reaches up, puts his hands around Connor’s wrists. His gaze doesn’t falter. “Okay,” he says, and Connor knows he won’t hear it again. Once Jack decides something, that’s it. Good as done. “Okay.”  

... 

At the end of the week, they have to catch their flight back north. Connor has BioSteel, and Jack has engagements, too, which will mean him driving back and forth to Buffalo for a few different days.  

Needing to leave doesn’t make it any easier to watch Jack pretend not to tear up at departures when he says goodbye to his niece, whispering something in her ear and clutching the picture she gave him in his fist. Connor knows better than to apologize to him at this point, knows why they stay where they do, but it doesn’t make it easier that they get to see Connor’s family every week, but Jack’s once a year.  

They’re Connor’s family now, too. Anne and Bob hug him just like they do Jack—he'll see them when his team comes to play in Boston, even though Jack isn’t there.  

When they’re finally seated on the plane, Jack tips his head onto Connor’s shoulder. “I’m gonna nap,” he says, but he probably won’t. He just wants to keep his eyes closed, his face hidden.  

“Okay,” Connor says. He tangles their fingers together under the airline blanket and orders Jack a beer when the flight attendant comes by.  

The flight passes quickly. Jack did drift off, towards the end of the flight, so Connor drives them home. “I think we should do Christmas together,” he says, when they turn into their neighborhood. They have houses sprinkled across the continent now, between the two of them, but pulling into this driveway always feels like coming home. 

“Here?” Jack asks. 

“Wherever,” Connor says, “Just. All together. Our families.” 

“That’s a lot of people,” Jack says, noncommittally, but he’s not looking at his phone screen anymore, which means that he’s taking it seriously. 

“We can make it work,” Connor says. 

...   

The second day they’re back, Connor wakes up at the World Cup. It’s a different day than the first time—they actually do have a game. Connor scores off a feed from Jack and it feels almost natural to scream at him, “Love you, baby!” The crowd is so loud that Jack probably doesn’t hear him, anyway.  

They all wind up in Jack and Auston’s room after dinner, the youngest core of them. It devolves after a while, drunken video games on one side of the room, drunken conversation on the other. Jack’s sprawled across one of the beds by himself. Connor can tell it’s the one he’s sleeping in, because it’s got discarded shirts strewn across it the same way Jack always leaves them at their house, and the pillow is crumpled up like it always is after Jack sleeps on it, facedown, arms curling up underneath.  

“Mind if I sit?” Connor asks him. Larkin had been there a moment ago, but he’s gone—either in the bathroom or down the hall to find another American to chat with.  

“Do I look like I care?” Jack says. 

He doesn’t look like he cares—he never does, but Connor knows him better. Jack cares about almost everything with an intensity that exhausts Connor just to think about, sometimes. He’s got a constant energy that Connor doesn’t know where he finds. Even laid out here on the bed, he doesn’t seem restful, still sparking with something.  

Maybe it’s just Connor projecting, though. He sometimes wonders if it was really like this the first time around, or if it's the added weight of the future that makes him feel like there’s a current between them, something magnetic when their eyes catch. Connor sits down.  

“We were playing truth or dare,” Jack tells him, after a minute. “Mostly truth, though, because Larks couldn’t think of any dares that wouldn’t get me arrested.” 

“Okay,” Connor says, and takes a sip of his beer. He’s been drinking for a while, and he’s feeling a little tipsy. Jack doesn’t look much better—his ears are the telltale red that means he’s four or five drinks in.  

“Truth,” Jack asks him, “why do you even wanna hang out with me, anyway?” 

With the challenging way he says it, he probably means it to sound like,  _why do you want to be around someone who hates you?_ But Connor reads the  tension  around his eyes and interprets it more like,  _why do you keep seeking me out?_  

“I like you,” Connor says, simply, because that’s the truth. Jack’s eyes widen, just slightly, before he can catch himself. Connor doesn’t elaborate—anything else he says would be too much. He understands why this Jack resents him. He resents himself sometimes, even still. This bright, beautiful boy, so talented and dedicated. Someone who cares so much, undeniably head and shoulders above the rest of the talent in their draft. Reduced to nothing more than a consolation prize, simply by virtue of his birthdate and Connor’s existence.  

It burns in Connor’s throat when he thinks about it. Nobody ever asked Noah Hanifin if he was disappointed to go fifth—nobody asks a kid taken in the third round whether it’s worth being drafted at all, if he can’t go first. And here’s his Jack, his take-me-or-leave-me Jack, and nobody will take him. Connor wants to reach out to touch him, and it aches that he can’t.  

“Really?” Jack says, like it’s in spite of himself. 

“Of course,” Connor says. Everybody likes Jack, once they meet him. A gift that Connor’s never possessed. “Always have.” 

Jack clears his throat, clearly unsure of what to say next. Connor takes mercy on him, says, “Truth. What’s the dirtiest thing you’ve done?” 

Jack flushes, instantaneously. Connor would feel bad pushing, him, but. He knows everything Jack could say anyway, even if it makes him a masochist to ask. He knows it won’t be anything they’ve done together, not Aruba or that time after the Stanley Cup or Connor’s birthday last year.  

“Uh,” Jack says. 

“It’s truth, come on,” Connor says. “You know the rules, I can’t tell anybody.” 

“Didn’t realize you were so hard up that you would want to hear the details of my sex life,” Jack fires back. “Okay, uh. Once when someone was blowing me. They, uh. Like. Fingered me a little?” 

Connor knows this story, can’t stop himself from smiling, which makes Jack punch him in the shoulder. It seems so innocent somehow, cute that it makes Jack so nervous to say it out loud. He just says, “Wow. Did you like it?” 

“That’s not how this works,” Jack says, tomato red. “One question at a time.” 

“Okay, shoot.” 

“Truth,” Jack says, like he’s still thinking about what to say next. He’s going to think that repeating Connor’s question back is cheating, which is a shame. Connor would enjoy scandalizing him, a little, working him up. He’s wondering how far he can push this—it isn’t his Jack, he has to keep reminding himself. This is not going to end with them fucking over the bathroom counter. “Have you ever thought about kissing another guy.” 

He looks defiant, wears it in the tilt of his head, the set of his jaw. Like he’s afraid Connor’s going to say something about it, about Jack’s mind going there. He just says, “yeah. Done it, too.” 

“Who?” Jack asks. 

“Not how this game works,” Connor reminds him. “Truth: have you ever thought about it?” 

“Yeah,” Jack admits, looking away. “I’ve, uh. Done it, too. Truth: who was your first kiss? With a guy, I mean.” 

“Some guy you wouldn’t know,” Connor says, “it was at a house party, in Toronto. I think his name was Brian. I don’t know his last name. Truth: who was yours?” 

“Uh,” Jack says, worrying a thread on the bedspread between his fingers. “You won’t, like, tell anybody, right? Because this isn’t just my shit.” 

“I won’t.” 

“Hanny,” Jack blurts. “Noah, uh. Hanifin. We were in high school and it was during spin the bottle and we pretended like it didn’t mean anything, because, you know. But, yeah.” He looks up, all blue eyes. He says, “I cried for like, a day after that.” 

“What,” Connor says, because he knew, about Noah. But he didn’t know, about. That. 

Jack shrugs. 

“Did he, like. Say shit?” Connor asks. Noah was at their house last year. Jack just saw him in Boston—they went fishing together. Connor clenches his fists. When he gets back, he’s going to— 

“No, of course not,” Jack says. His voice is so low that Connor can hardly hear it, over the whooping of the guys playing video games. “He’s a good dude, he’s just super straight. So it really didn’t mean anything to him, which is fine. But, like. I was pretending I was straight and then I finally kissed a guy and I guess I just knew that I was kinda fucked because I couldn’t really lie to myself anymore after that, so. It was just a lot. Sorry, I'm drunk. I’ve never told anybody that, before.” 

“Oh,” Connor says, and doesn’t touch him. “It can be rough, you know. I get that.” 

“Yeah,” Jack says. “It was mostly, like. I figured at that point that I wasn’t going to get to be with anybody, for real. So. That was rough.” 

“Yeah,” Connor says, raspy, because he can’t say,  _you will be._ “Maybe someday, like. Things will be different.” 

“I don’t think so,” Jack says, “not soon enough for me, anyway. But it’s okay, now. Relationships aren’t everything, and if I'm careful I can hook up on the road, and. I get to play hockey. So that’s good enough for me.” 

_That shouldn’t be fucking good enough for anybody,_ Connor thinks. He lays down, fully. Closes his eyes, which makes his vertigo worse, from the booze and the flashing lights from the TV and from learning that, no, he still doesn’t know everything about Jack Eichel. Which seems like a minor miracle, in a way. All he wants is to wake up back in his bed, where he gets to prove that Jack’s worth loving after all.  

“I need to go to bed,” he says.  

“Do you want me to walk you back,” Jack says, a little concerned. Connor hates that he has to leave him here like this, hiding and alone.  

“No,” Connor says. “Listen, if you. Ever want to talk to somebody. You should call me.” 

“Okay,” Jack says neutrally, but Connor knows he won’t. It might be all he can do, but. Connor still feels like he should try for more. 

… 

Connor wakes up, fatigued and still feeling emotionally raw. He can hear the shower running in their master.  

“Jesus shitting Christ,” Jack says, when Connor pulls back the shower curtain. “Warn a guy, McDavid.” 

“Sorry,” Connor says, and presses his face into Jack’s neck. He’s going to get soap in his eyes. Jack puts his arms around his waist, even as he says, still irritated, “I could have slipped and died, and then where would we be.” 

“I wouldn’t let you die,” Connor says nonsensically. “Did you ever feel like you were going to end up alone?”  

“I mean, doesn’t everybody feel like that at some point?” Jack says, “even when they don’t like sleeping with dudes and also playing hockey? Hey, where did you go last night?” 

“World Cup,” Connor says, pulling back. Since he’s in the shower anyway, he reaches back past Jack to grab his own shampoo, which feels suspiciously light. “Why do you use this when you have your fancy stuff, anyway?” 

“I like the way it smells,” Jack says, defensively.  

“We played truth or dare, but mostly truth,” Connor says, after he rolls his eyes. “You told me that after you kissed Noah for the first time, you cried. You’ve never told me that before.” 

Jack pauses in rinsing out his hair, stunned. 

“Or, maybe that didn’t happen.” Connor says, realizing it for the first time.  

“No, that happened,” Jack says. “I’m just. Processing.” 

“Maybe it’s good that there are still things we don’t know about each other,” Connor muses. “Keeps things fresh. Switch me places so that I can rinse.” 

Jack does, still frowning. “Connor, focus,” he says. “I’ve never told you that, before. I’ve never told anyone that, not even Noah, but somehow whichever version of me you met last night told you that, which is a true thing.” 

“Okay?” Connor says. 

“So,” Jack says, gesturing with his whole body. “You’re meeting real versions of me, Sherlock. It’s not like, an elaborate dream or psychosis or something.” 

“Hey—” 

“Not that I thought it was,” Jack says hastily, “but. That’s proof. You’re really going somewhere else. A different timeline, or something. Or like, a parallel universe.” 

Connor finishes rinsing out his hair, thinking. The more often he jumps and returns successfully, the less important it feels to figure it out, somehow. It doesn’t matter if he does his past twice over, as long as he keeps coming back here.  

“You know if we don’t figure this out,” he says carefully. “It doesn’t mean—we didn’t do anything wrong. We didn’t fail. We can live like this, without knowing the reason.” 

Jack pulls him in. They're buck naked and soaking wet, but it’s not sexual. It’s just comfortable, them standing together like this. Connor knows Jack’s body as well as his own, and loves it better. His face fits perfectly in the crook of his neck.  

“I know that,” Jack says. “I’d just. Feel better, knowing. For sure.” 

“Okay,” Connor tells him, and then grins into his shoulder. “Hey. What’s the dirtiest thing that’s ever happened to you?” 

Jack tightens his arms. Now it might be a little sexual. “Aruba, for sure,” he says. “Why, you looking to try something new?” 

… 

They have a big barbecue, all the guys they know in town for the summer and their partners and kids. Connor hopes it never gets old, the way he can bring a beer over for Jack where he’s manning the grill and deliver it with a kiss and a hand on his back and not have anyone look at them sideways.  

Jack thrives on this—having his people around him. Connor thrives on having him happy.  

They build a fire when the sun sets. Some of the kids roast marshmallows—some of the adults, too. Jack winds up with somebody’s baby napping in his arms as he sits back in one of the deck chairs. Connor brings him a jacket because it’s cold, now that it’s dark, and Jack won’t put his arms through it because she’s just fallen asleep and he doesn’t want to jostle her. Connor tucks it over his shoulders, sits on the wide arm of his chair. Jack keeps pressing his nose into the wispy hairs on her head, thumbing over her tiny fingers where they’re balled up under her chin, mesmerized.  

Her mouth opens in a silent ‘O,’ then closes again, puckered. She tosses her head back, then resettles in Jack’s arms.  

“Let’s have a baby,” he tells Connor, without looking up.  

Connor pushes a hand through Jack’s hair, gentle, feeling the way Jack presses back into his touch even though he won’t admit to liking it. Their baby might have his curls. 

He doesn’t mean today, obviously, or this year, or the next. They’ve had this discussion. Connor doesn’t need to quantify it, when he says, “yeah. Let’s do that.” 

… 

Connor lands at the All Star Game, 2018. It’s a fairly uneventful day, all things considered. Noah and Auston are both there—he watches the easy way Jack is with them, a little resentfully.  

He wakes up, stumbles downstairs where Jack’s making coffee. He makes it so strong—cowboy coffee, Connor’s mom always jokes.  

“Jumped again,” Connor mutters to him, and pulls out the milk.  

Jack pours him a mug.  

“2018, All Star Game,” Connor elaborates. “We didn’t even talk.” 

“I don’t think we talked at the real thing, either,” Jack points out. 

“Still,” Connor said. He’s started to—not look forward, to the jumps. But resent them less, maybe. If they’re going to happen anyway, at least gets to spend more time with Jack. Learn new things about him.  

“I wish...” Jack sighs, then says, “nevermind. I’m going to go for a jog, be back soon.” 

“You wish what,” Connor says, catching his wrist. 

Jack hesitates. “It’s dumb,” he says. 

“I don’t care. Tell me.” 

“I wish that I could. I don’t know. I don’t wish I was jumping too, not really. But sometimes I wish I could, like. Go with you, or something. I don’t know, like I said, it’s dumb.” 

“Jack,” Connor says carefully.  

“Just. You don’t think there are things that I regret?” Jack says, laughing, but not like anything’s funny. “Things that I did or said, or didn’t do or didn’t say? Things that I wish I could get a do-over of? Even if they don’t stick?” 

“Oh,” Connor says. He’s never thought of it like that—like a second chance. That’s what he says out loud.  

“But it is, isn’t it?” Jack asks. “Every day you thought about saying something and didn’t. Every time you wanted to kiss me. You have that chance now.” 

“You know I don‘t regret anything, right?” Connor asks. “Anything that got us here. I don’t regret not kissing you, or not saying anything. Until it was right. Because everything we did, and didn’t do—even the stupid stuff—that got us here. That’s what I think about, every time I jump. That no matter what happens, I still get to wake up here with you, and we’re always going to be us. That’s what matters to me.” 

Jack kisses him, too hard and deep for their kitchen at the crack of dawn. Connor bites back, opens his mouth and lets Jack lick inside. “I just...” Jack says, when he pulls back. “We could have had so much more time. I don’t begrudge you getting that. Just. Make it good for us, okay?” 

“I will,” Connor says, and Jack leaves him with his coffee. 

… 

Jack comes back, makes his smoothie, takes a shower. When he gets out, Connor says, “let’s go to the shelter.” 

Jack’s face twists a little. “Connor,” he says flatly, “we’re not going to go get a dog because you feel bad that you’re jumping and I’m not.” 

“That’s not why,” Connor says. It’s true, it’s not—even if their conversation is what precipitated the thought. “Jack, this isn’t sudden. You’ve been looking at dogs for two years. If we don’t find yours today, we’ll go back next week.” 

“Connor—” 

“What are we waiting for? To retire? To figure out what’s wrong with me? I know there are things we can’t do right now. But getting you a dog is not one of them. It’s going to make you happy, so let’s do it.” 

“Okay,” Jack says. 

“And I just think that we—okay?” 

“Okay,” Jack repeats, smiling a little. “Let me grab my shoes, and we’ll go, okay?” 

“Kay,” Connor says, and Jack kisses him when he passes, the same deep, longing kind he gave Connor before he left the house for his run. Connor doesn’t let him go.  

“Hey,” Jack says, when he pulls back. “Our dog. Okay? And there’s nothing wrong with you, babe.” 

… 

They find her in the back of the row of kennels, big and golden. She’s a mix, and the shelter’s not sure of what exactly, except that she probably has a little pit in her. She’s honest-to-god smiling when she comes up to sniff them through the wire.  

“Hi, babygirl,” Jack coos, and Connor knows that’s it. This is the one.  

“Her name is Puck,” the employee who’s been showing them around says.  

“Seriously,” Connor says flatly.  

“That’s her _name_ ,” Jack says, wounded. “We’re not changing it, just because—” 

“It’s a little on the nose,” Connor says.  

“It’s Shakespearean,” the girl says blithely. “Her siblings have been adopted. Tybalt, Iago and Hamlet. She was the only girl in the litter.” 

“She’s  _alone,_ ” Jack tells Connor, pointedly. 

“I can let her out, if you want to take her for a walk,” the girl chatters on. “She’s really great with kids. She needs some training, but she does well with other animals, too.” 

When the girl opens her cage, Puck scampers right into Jack’s arms, nosing up under his chin. He looks imploringly at Connor. “She’s perfect,” he says.   

She’s adorable. She rolls over so that Jack can pet her belly. 

“Her name is Puck,” Connor says. “Everybody’s going to think we named her that.” 

“Don’t talk about her like that,” Jack scolds. “Her name is perfect. It’s meant to be.” 

… 

Jack starts taking her to puppy training every week, before he goes to the gym. She goes on his run with him every morning, which makes him extremely happy because Connor still won’t and he doesn’t like being alone. 

Connor puts his foot down the first time she tries to climb on their bed with them—Jack concedes, eventually, but he knows that she’ll be sleeping with him on his bed in Buffalo as soon as Connor’s gone.  

Connor’s fonder of her than he’ll ever admit, but she’s Jack’s baby. When he calls her and opens his arms, she actually leaps up into them. 

Jack lets her out each morning while he makes them coffee. He still leaves a cup for Connor on his nightstand, even though it goes cold by the time he wakes up.  

But when Connor wakes up in the night now, Puck rouses too and follows him to the kitchen while he chugs a glass of water, sitting quietly at his feet.  

“Good girl,” Connor whispers, scratching at her ears. She leans against his legs while he drinks, a heavy, adoring weight. Her nails click against the hardwood flooring when he takes her back to bed. “Sweet girl,” he says, and she lays her head down, closes her eyes. Jack gave her a stuffed bison from his team store, and she won’t sleep without it. Connor puts it between her front paws, and waits until she closes her eyes before he goes back to bed. 

… 

He wakes up during U-17s, which is the earliest he’s ever jumped. It’s the day they play the Americans—Jack has a spectacular game, two goals and a lot of fucking pretty hockey, and Connor can’t even begrudge them the win because he likes watching it happen so much.  

Jack’s younger than Connor’s seen him in a long while, flushed and pleased with himself. This is the game, he remembers suddenly, where Jack first started to think he could make it. The look he wears—tired and satisfied and pink—is not something that Connor associates strictly with hockey, anymore. But he played a beautiful game, looks so happy. 

There’s a handshake line—Connor can’t hold himself back from saying, when Jack approaches him, “you were fucking incredible.” 

Jack startles, his face making a surprised little jerk. Maybe it’s just different enough from the  _good game, good game_ he’s hearing in the rest of the line.  

But maybe not. He still makes that same startled face, whenever Connor compliments him. Like he doesn’t expect it.  

“Thanks,” he says, lowly. “Good game.” 

… 

The house is quiet, when he wakes. Connor finds Jack in the study, focused on something on his computer screen. He takes a moment to watch him, before Jack notices that he’s there—the straight line of his nose, the distracted way that he pushes his hand through his hair.  

He’s wearing his glasses. He’d come home from the eye doctor wearing them last week, sheepishly—he'd texted Connor that his doctor had given him a prescription, which hadn’t prepared Connor for the reality of seeing Jack in his frames for the first time. Jack had made a fairly explicit threat against Connor’s future sex life if he’d laughed, which he had not. Instead, he’d said, “oh,” a little dumbly, and then dropped to his knees right there in their foyer.  

Now, he comes up behind Jack, threads his arms around Jack’s shoulders and presses his face into the back of Jack’s neck.  

“Hi,” Jack says distractedly, still reading his email.  

“Do I ever tell you how good you are?” Connor says.  

“Hmm?” Jack says, and finally exits out of his screen. “Like... good how?” 

“I don’t know,” Connor tells him. “Just. Good. Good at hockey. Good at being with me. A good person. I don’t know how else to say it. You’re just good, and. I want you to know that.” 

“Good looking,” Jack says, spinning in his chair to face Connor, but he says it sarcastically, which. Is not what Connor’s going for, here. 

“Yes,” Connor tells him, honestly. There’s a questioning look on Jack’s face, so he continues, “do you remember that game, when we were playing in U-17s? You scored twice and you beat us.” 

“Is that where you jumped?” 

“Yeah,” Connor says. “And, like. I know, how good you are. But that game was just... something else. And I thought I should remind you. You’re so fucking good.” 

“I’m gonna get a big head, you keep talking like that,” Jack says, like he’s joking.  

Connor tries to mimic his light tone. “I’m not fucking around, Jack.” From the way Jack startles, making that same little surprised expression, he’s not sure he succeeds. 

“Okay,” Jack says, cracking a smile even as he keeps his voice soothing. “I know you’re not, babe.” 

“Just. I want you to know that. How good you are.” 

“Okay,” Jack says, stroking at his hair. “Okay, okay. I know that, okay?”  

“Okay.” 

“Hey, I mean,” Jack says, smoothing his hands down farther, over Connor’s ass. “You want me to prove how good I am?” 

Connor shudders. Says, “okay.”  

... 

Connor wakes up in January 2019, and it takes him a moment to realize why. He stays in so many hotel rooms—has stayed in so many over the years—that it takes a look at the outdated, shittier-than-ever NHL app to tell him that it’s the All Star break.   

He hasn’t missed an All Star game in years, and neither has Jack. He doesn’t remember this one standing out, much. His team plays and loses in the first matchup, and so does Jack’s.  

Everyone ends up in the same bar that evening. Jack’s across the room and he doesn’t talk to Connor or look at him—why would he? Connor, embarrassingly, is noticeably distracted by him. Jack’s got a sunburn on his nose, because he probably just came back from an aborted tropical vacation and Connor wasn’t there to remind him to reapply his sunscreen before he fell asleep like he always does in the afternoon.  

Three drinks in, Jack catches his eye again—this time, he’s up at the bar, ostensibly getting a round for his table. There’s someone at his elbow though, a guy, chatting animatedly to him. Jack’s face is open, his body language relaxed. He laughs, when the guy says something.  

“Motherfucker,” Connor says under this breath, because he knows what Jack looks like flirting.  

“What?” The guy to his right shouts. 

“Nothing,” Connor says, and grinds his teeth, even though—even though this was more than a year before they got together, and he has no claim over Jack, and they’re in California and Connor knows as well as anybody that non-traditional markets are the best place to hook up with guys on the road, and he should probably just let it go.  

But Jack had said—he'd said that Connor was allowed to kiss him. Or… whatever. So he doesn’t let it go, chugs the rest of his drink and says instead, “I’m gonna get another,” and makes his way up to the bar. He makes sure to push in right next to where Jack’s standing, on his other side from the guy still chatting him up.  

“Hey,” Connor says, when Jack glances over his shoulder to see who jostled him. Jack raises his eyebrows, because they don’t talk to each other out in public. They’re friendly enough when they need to be for appearances, but they’re not friends.  

“Hey,” he says, half a question, and turns back. Connor puts a hand on his forearm.  

“Hey, Eichel,” he says, and squeezes. Jack turns back. 

“What,” he says, and now he’s irritated. Of course he is, Connor would be too, because he’s being a huge fucking cockblock right now and he’s doing it on purpose.  

“I was hoping I would see you,” Connor says, pulling his hand away and trying to keep his tone friendly, “I wanted to talk to you.” 

“About what?” Jack says, and there’s some genuine curiosity there, along with the annoyance. 

Connor scrambles. “About the powerplay,” he finally says. He knows that it doesn’t make sense, and so does Jack, who furrows his eyebrows at him, pulls a classic Jack expression.  _What the fuck, McDavid?_  

But he says, “Uh, okay, I guess. What about it?” 

Connor’s saved when the guy finally gets bored, says, “Hey man, it was great to meet you! Maybe I’ll, uh. See you around.” 

_You won’t,_ Connor thinks uncharitably,  _and if you couldn’t wait for five minutes while he talked hockey, you didn’t deserve him anyway._  

“What, McDavid,” Jack says, after Connor doesn’t say anything and the other guy strolls away. He’s pissed, and that makes Connor angrier, too. He knows it’s childish and unfair, and he doesn’t care. He’s fucking pissed that Jack was about to walk out of here with some other guy when Connor was right there, even if he didn’t know better. Connor has the upper hand here, anyway. He has years of experience with Jack under his belt, knows what to say and what not to, what turns him on and what makes him tick and what pisses him off.  

And he’s not interested in placating him right now. “Oh, sorry,” he says, leaning into his own accent. It drives Jack crazy when Connor goes extra-Canadian, so he keeps his voice pleasant. “Were you talking to him?” 

“I was...” Jack starts, and then bites it off. Connor waits him out, waits to see if he’ll admit it. “Never mind,” he says. 

“Oh, I am so sorry,” Connor says again, widening his eyes. Jack can see right through the act and Connor loves it, says innocently, “were you going to... well, you know.” 

He knows the way that he says it makes him sound like a giant, blushing virgin, and that pisses Jack off even more, when he plays into that stereotype. 

“I was about to get my cock wet, yeah,” Jack says, and his tone broadcasts,  _and if you fucking tell anyone, you won’t have one_ _yourself_ _anymore,_ “so what was so fucking important about the powerplay, anyway?” 

Connor doesn’t answer. He puts his hand back on Jack’s forearm, squeezes. Lowers his voice. “You know,” he says, “if you still want to get your cock wet. You don’t have to go to a stranger for that.” 

Jack stares at him, mouth comically ajar. Connor strokes his thumb over the underside of Jack’s wrist which, yeah, is dirty pool, because he knows it will make Jack shudder. He does, and breathes, “what the fuck, McDavid.” 

Connor shrugs. “I mean,” he says, “I want you, and. I didn’t know that you were into guys before now, but it seems like you are, and you can’t deny that you’ve always wanted the chance to get me on my knees, maybe fuck my mouth.” 

Jack has told him more than once in loving, explicit detail just how much he always wanted that, in the before. Has shown him, too. Connor squeezes his wrist again. “So,” he says, and drops his head a little so that when he blinks back up at Jack, it’s through his lashes. Another trick he’s picked up over the years. 

Then, he drops Jack’s arm and straightens up. “Come find me, if you want.” 

He gets five steps away before Jack calls, “wait, McDavid!” 

... 

Connor wakes up early, still outrageously pissed off. Jack’s sleeping, sprawled out on his belly, face tipped towards Connor, who can see the fan of his blond lashes, the way his breath whuffs against the pillow.  

He’d felt calmer by the time he’d gone to sleep last night, Jack back in his own hotel room and Connor’s knees sore and lips red, but somehow seeing his own Jack takes him right back there, hot with jealousy. He hadn’t known before—wouldn't have cared if he was asked—that Jack had hooked up with someone else that weekend. 

He cares now. 

He rolls over, right onto Jack, settling himself along Jack’s back. He knows he’s heavy, but he also knows that Jack can take it, doesn’t make any effort to hold his weight up. Jack mumbles something, and Connor snakes his hands up under the pillow until he finds Jack’s wrists, pins them there. 

“What,” Jack says, bleary. 

“You fucking almost hooked up with someone else last night,” Connor snarls. 

“No, I—" Jack says, and then trails off. Last night, here, they’d watched TV until late. Connor had had his head in Jack’s lap, and the closest Jack got to any action was when he pulled Connor’s hair a little too hard when he was combing his fingers through it and Connor told him,  _save it for the bedroom, babe._  

He’s still waking up, so Connor gives him a minute to catch on. 

“Where did you go?” He asks finally, words still muffled by the pillow. Connor squeezes his wrists. 

“All Star Game, 2019.” 

“Ah,” Jack says, and can’t quite hide his smile. “That was a good night.” 

Connor gives his wrists a little shake. “You fucking. Hooked up. With someone.” Then he bites, the soft curve between his neck and shoulder, hard enough to make Jack hiss.  

Jack doesn’t say anything like,  _we weren’t even together,_ even though it’s true. He seems to have caught onto Connor’s mood—their relationship started with so much tension that even though it’s not like that now, sometimes they still default back there. Sometimes they like to default back there. Some of the best sex they’ve ever had, Jack was fucking livid at him and took it out on his hide, and Connor’s more than willing to return the favor. 

So Jack doesn’t say anything, just hums, like he’s remembering something good. “Yeah,” he says, “I remember. He was good with his tongue.” 

“No, he wasn’t,” Connor says, and ruts against him. “Not last night. Last night, I fucking took you home.” 

“Showed me how it’s really done?” 

“Yeah,” Connor agrees, pressing in again. “You weren’t thinking about that other fucking guy when I was done with you.” 

“Mmm,” Jack says. Connor woke up half-hard and he’s all the way there, now, driving his hips into Jack’s ass. They’re both wearing briefs, and Jack fell asleep in one of Connor’s ancient Otters shirts last night. Connor can’t tear his eyes away from the way that his name is stretched across Jack’s back now, the shirt sizes too small and straining across his torso. He pulls one of his hands off Jack’s wrist, fists it in the shirt right over the nameplate, holds him down.  

“You’re fucking mine,” he bites out. Jack makes a noise of agreement. “I got on my knees last night, showed you that. Let you fuck my throat. That other guy, he couldn’t take you like that, but you begged me for it.” 

“Bet your mouth was so pretty,” Jack says, “bet you cried a little, taking it.” 

“Yeah, you wanted it so bad,” Connor breathes. “Best you ever had, and I didn’t even fuck you.” 

“You going to?” Jack asks then. “Are you going to fuck me?” 

“Fuck,” Connor says. The way Jack says it—not,  _do you want to fuck me,_ or,  _I want you to fuck me_ —the way he says it like it’s Connor’s choice, like he could say yes or no and Jack would take it either way, it drives him fucking crazy. “I want—" and then he corrects himself, says, “I’m going to get off just like this. Just rubbing against you. Keep your wrists there.” 

Jack does, when Connor sits back. He just looks, for a moment, at the way he’s all spread out, staying still because Connor told him to. Then he pulls down the waistband of Jack’s briefs, just until it snaps against his thighs, right below his ass. He’s thick, especially towards the end of a full summer of training. Connor takes a minute just trailing his fingers over Jack’s ass, squeezing and rubbing, until Jack gets impatient, bites out his name. 

“Shut up,” Connor tells him, and softens it by smoothing a hand down his back. “Just... let me.”  

He has to reach across to his nightstand for lube, and Jack whines again when Connor climbs off him to shuck off his own underwear, his shirt.  

He slicks himself up, and when he settles back down over Jack, his cock slips against his ass, between his cheeks. “Yeah,” He breathes. “Just stay there, babe.” 

He grinds in again and again, sticky with lube and precome. Every couple of strokes, he catches on Jack’s hole, pushes against him. He wouldn’t fuck Jack now, obviously, not without lube and prep, but whenever he rubs against him, catches his rim, Jack makes a beautiful, broken little sound.  

“Good?” Connor asks him. 

“Be better if you fucked me,” Jack says, petulant, and Connor kisses his neck. 

“Nah,” he says, “I want it like this, and I'm still pissed at you, so we’re doing this my way. You can take it.” 

He’s sweating, and Jack’s wearing his shirt, holding his own hands still against the mattress. “Connor,” he says, and that’s when Connor loses it, rutting against him, coming over his ass in messy stripes.  

“Fuck,” he bites out, and finally sits back on his knees, rubs his palms over Jack’s waist. “Roll over, babe,” he says, and Jack wrinkles his nose. 

“Gonna get the sheets all gross,” he says, but he does, anyway. He’s pink, fresh-fucked and still sleepy looking.  

Connor fucking adores him. 

“Hey,” Jack says, watching his face. “Come here.” Connor does, lets Jack embrace him, kiss his neck. “I’m in your bed,” he says, voice low. He’s still hard, leaking at the tip, and he doesn't even try to do anything about it. “I’m wearing your clothes. That other guy doesn’t matter. He was nothing—a random hookup, way before you. I’m yours, now.” 

“I know,” Connor tells him, and then asks, because he hasn’t yet, “was that too much? Like... too mean?” 

“It was good,” Jack says, “I like when you get all possessive. If I didn’t, I’d tell you to stop, and you would.” 

“Yeah, of course I would,” Connor says, and feels Jack kiss his throat again, warm and insistent. “You wanna get off, babe? Let me suck you off.” 

“I mean, if you insist,” Jack says, but his voice is breathy and when Connor kisses down his sternum he shudders a little.  

“Hey, uh,” Connor says, settling on his stomach and taking Jack in his hand. “You wanna, like, pull my hair a little?” 

Jack smiles at him. “I guess I could, just because I’m so generous,” he teases, and threads his hand in where Connor’s hair is getting long on top, twists it between his fingers. “You need a haircut, soon.”  

“Yeah,” Connor agrees, and licks a stripe up Jack’s shaft, takes the head in his mouth before pulling off to say, “maybe I’ll make an appointment next week.” 

Jack watches him, lazily tugging at his hair, pupils blown wide. “You were right before, you know?” He asks, and Connor’s mouth is full, so he doesn’t say anything—just hums around him, which has the added benefit of making Jack twitch and swear. “Best I ever had.”  

… 

It’s the last night before they go their separate ways. Connor has a long flight, Jack a short drive. The night is faded and rosy and warm. Connor aches for days like this during the season with an intensity that actually hurts—the sounds of birds and the lingering heat of the summer day and the quiet suburban sounds of their neighborhood. When he has to sleep at night in the heart of winter, he pictures this scene in his mind. 

Jack’s in one of their deck chairs, Puck sprawled on his feet, languid and content just to be near him. Every once in a while, he’ll reach down to scratch behind her ears and her tail will thump in pure delight and she’ll squirm with delirious Jack-love. 

When Connor comes back out from the house with their second bottle of wine, he puts himself in Jack’s lap, sideways, and puts the lip of the bottle straight to Jack’s mouth. A drop escapes, rolls towards his chin, and Connor puts his mouth there before it can stain Jack’s shirt, chases it up to his mouth and kisses him open and wet. Jack goes pliant, lets Connor lead the kiss until it gets to be almost too much for their semi-public backyard.  

Connor doesn’t take it further, now—that's for later, when they get into their bed for the last time this summer. He leans into Jack instead, syrupy against his warmth, and they both sit in the quiet of the night, swigging from the bottle occasionally.  

“Do you know,” Connor says after a while. He's pleasantly tipsy, which is going to make their sex tonight really fucking fantastic. “I, like, fantasize about being married to you.” 

He’s got one hand in Jack’s hair, thumbing through his tight curls. Jack’s voice is steady, when he says, “I know.” His arms tighten a fraction around Connor’s waist, and Connor squirms into him.  

“How do you know,” Connor demands, but. That’s silly. He knows the things about Jack that he’s never said out loud, too.  

Jack shrugs, and smiles at him, warm and open. Connor won’t see him this soft again until they’re alone together. Jack doesn’t deign to be like this around anybody else, which still makes Connor feel special in a way he would rather not admit. “I know that the domestic stuff is a thing for you. You’re not that subtle. I guess I didn’t know you, like, fantasized about it, but.” 

“I fantasize about other stuff, too,” Connor says defensively, and flushes, because Jack’s going to ask Connor to tell him about the other stuff later, now that he’s said that. “I just. Like thinking about it. Not just the rings and the ceremony and stuff. Like obviously, that too. But. I like thinking about the actual marriage part. Fighting over who has to get the milk and talking about boring shit over dinner and waking up to coffee on my nightstand every morning and knowing all your passwords. That stuff.” 

“That’s stuff we already do,” Jack says, and kisses his shoulder. 

“I know,” Connor says, “that’s what I mean. I like that stuff, so. I just like thinking about getting to do it forever. And I thought I should tell you that. I know it’s not going to happen now, but I want it to happen at some point. And I think about it, all the time.” 

Jack’s face is tucked against him. Connor coaxes him into taking another swig of wine, and then Jack puts his hand over Connor’s on the bottle, looks up at him. “You know I want that too, right? I’m going to marry you one day.” 

Connor did know that, of course. They’ve had the marriage conversation. They know where they’re going. Still, it makes him warmer than he expected, to hear Jack say it out loud like that, blunt and factual. He actually shivers, hearing it.  

“I know,” he says.  

… 

They cork the bottle of wine, still half full, and put Puck to bed, and then they go up to their room and Jack fucks him until Connor’s making noises he didn’t actually know he could. They’re tipsy and flushed and sloppy and Connor leaves a monster of a hickey on Jack’s clavicle, which is only partly his fault because Jack bruises so easily and also when Connor did it he couldn’t remember his own name.     

They brush their teeth together afterwards, keep meeting each other's gaze in the mirror and dissolving into giggles. Jack presses up behind him when he towels off his face, kisses the back of his neck even though Connor couldn’t come again if he tried. 

“Lotion,” Connor reminds him, and Jack takes more of Connor’s moisturizer than he really needs, slathers it over his face.  

“Happy?” he asks.  

“Very,” Connor tells him. 

Jack settles down on his stomach in the bed, face turned towards Connor. He hasn’t even packed yet, clothes strewn around the room, which would normally irritate Connor, but. He’s glad that it still feels like their home, right now. “Do you think you’re going to jump, during the season?” 

“I don’t know,” Connor tells him honestly, and presses his feet up against Jack’s legs, where it’s always the warmest. He hasn’t jumped this summer the few times that Jack’s been away for the night, but that could be a coincidence. “I can never tell when it’s going to happen.” 

There’s a Dickens novel on Jack’s nightstand that he actually went and got a library card to check out. He’s burned through Wikipedia and all of the available nonfiction, such as it is, reading about time travel and parallel universes and alternate timelines. Now he’s moved onto books, movies, anything else he can find.  

_“_ _A Christmas Carol?"_ Connor had said, “in August?” 

It’s not even the Spark notes, which Connor had gently mocked him for.  

“I’m a man of hidden depths,” Jack had responded haughtily. “Maybe it’s like, you know, a Ghosts of Hockey Past situation.” 

“There haven’t been any rattling chains so far,” Connor had said, but he hasn’t brought it up again. He’s resigned himself, contentedly enough, to not knowing the mechanics of what’s happening to him, but Jack’s still digging, dogged as ever. Connor thinks that maybe he just likes being involved, feeling like a part of it, but he’d never ask Jack that. It makes him feel warm regardless, the proof that Jack cares so much sitting there on his nightstand.  

And besides, he’d promised Connor they’d figure it out.  

Jack hasn’t broken a promise to him yet.  

Now, Jack hums. “If you do jump,” he says, carefully. “I want you to call me after, okay? Just so I know.” 

Connor thinks about waking up to an empty bed—unpleasant, even when he’s in his own timeline. “I will,” he says, steady. Jack’s eyes are drooping. Childishly, Connor doesn’t want to sleep, because if he does then he’ll wake up sooner and he’ll have to go back west. But it’s time, so he settles in, on his side, facing Jack. He reaches out, draws a thumb over Jack’s brow. “Goodnight,” he says. “Love you.” 

“Love you, too,” Jack mumbles. He sneaks an arm out to tangle in the hem of Connor’s shirt, pull him closer. His fingers nudge up under Connor’s side, grounding. “I’ll be here when you wake up.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Me, drunkenly warbling along to One Direction, "I have loved you since we were eighteen..." That's really where this all began. 
> 
> Listen IDK why I needed to write them relentlessly soft at this moment in time but I really, really did. I hope you all enjoy--please please let me know if you did--but this was very much a "write-it-for-yourself" one for me. I'm feeling very tender about them.


End file.
